


Plug 'n Play

by toastycyborg



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Blow Jobs, Bondage, Chocolate, Cock Warming, Crossdressing, Customizable Android Genitalia (Detroit: Become Human), Enemas, Established Relationship, Food Kink, Formalwear, Handcuffs, Hank Anderson and Connor Live Together, Inflation, Kinktober 2019, M/M, Masochism, Oral Sex, POV Third Person, Past Tense, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn with Feelings, Post-Pacifist Best Ending (Detroit: Become Human), Public Sex, Sensory Deprivation, Sleepy Sex, Temperature Play, Wax Play
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-01
Updated: 2019-10-12
Packaged: 2020-11-09 02:50:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 17,420
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20846318
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/toastycyborg/pseuds/toastycyborg
Summary: Hank and Connor spice up their sex life by exploring various kinks - and though things don't always go as planned, they have fun along the way.





	1. Hand Job

**Author's Note:**

> _Detroit: Become Human_ and all of its characters are property of Quantic Dream and Sony Interactive Entertainment. No copyright infringement is intended in this fanfiction.
> 
> Kink prompt list by [RonTheMess on Twitter.](https://twitter.com/RonTheMess/status/1166836831410970625?s=19)
> 
> Beta'd by **cardboardpenholder**.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Connor gives Hank a helping hand.

~

Hank had learned a lot about androids since he fell in love with one.

He’d learned they were both hardy and fragile, like iPhones from the turn of the century. They were heavier than humans, stronger and faster, and ran hot despite the popular misconception that ‘machines are cold’. Hank had learned they could function for weeks at a time without powering down to rest their processors, and they could drink a whole thermos of thirium in three seconds flat. It was weird to watch, actually – they tipped back their heads and, _glug_, down it went, no need to breathe or swallow.

He’d also learned that they had near-_insatiable_ sex drives … or maybe that was just his partner.

Hank braced his forearms on the kitchen counter, head hung and sweat dripping from his nose as Connor gave him the reach-around. Hank wasn’t quite sure how they’d gotten here, to be honest. One minute, they were ferrying bags of groceries indoors from the car. The next, Connor was plastered to his partner’s back – peppering his nape in kisses while one nimble hand rubbed Hank to semi-hardness through his jeans.

Okay, so … maybe it was kinda Hank’s fault. _Maybe_. He hadn’t exactly been a gentleman on their shopping trip … pinching Connor’s ass in the produce aisle, and playing footsie under the table when they’d stopped for lunch.

But, come on. It’d been _years_ since Hank’s last relationship – and he still got giddy whenever Connor gave him that lopsided smile, or when their stares met and those soft doe eyes creased with warmth as if the lieutenant were his whole fucking world.

Could Hank really be blamed?

Connor’s long, dextrous fingers hooked into the press-stud of Hank’s fly. Connor’s disregard for buttons during foreplay was another thing Hank had learned about since the guy moved in. Connor popped the stud and swiftly tugged down Hank’s zipper, the curt sound sharp over the lieutenant’s ragged breaths. Hank fumbled to help him, fishing through the folds of his own ratty boxers to free his aching cock.

The cool kitchen air made him shiver when exposed, but Connor didn’t give him a chance to complain. Those lithe fingers curled around Hank’s length, heavenly warm and confident. Hank sagged against the counter, lost in sensation. Synthskin felt different to the human sort, smoother and supple with the firmness of solid chassis underneath. Connor applied just the right amount of pressure, squeezing _just right_ and Hank knew his earlier teasing had awakened a beast.

Connor doubled over Hank as if to mount him, but didn’t bother with his own trousers. Instead, slow enough to _burn_, he gave Hank a single, firm pump. Root-to-tip, letting his nails graze the skin in a way he knew drove Hank wild.

The dry drag made Hank’s whole body clench. He threw back his head with a grunt, knocking into Connor’s shoulder. Connor’s free arm snaked around Hank’s belly, possessive even as he pressed soothing kisses to the man’s whiskery cheek. He continued to pump at that same languid pace, maddeningly precise over each and every one of Hank’s sensitive spots.

Hank hit full hardness in record time – or, at least, record time for an alcoholic, overweight man of fifty-three – and he squirmed in Connor’s grip, unsure what to do with his own hands. He wanted to touch Connor so badly – but if he let go of the counter, he doubted he could hold himself upright. He knew Con wouldn’t let him faceplant – but that wasn’t the point. It was a matter of principle. If he fell apart from a little _hand action_, the kid would never let him live it down.

Connor twisted his wrist on the upstroke, and hummed at the full-body shudder he got in return. “You’re so responsive, Lieutenant …” he purred. He nuzzled into the crook of Hank’s ear, equally hard where he draped himself over his partner’s bowed spine. “Does it feel good?”

Another squeeze, and Hank seized a fistful of Connor’s hair over his shoulder. The synthetic curls pulled taut between his fingers but Connor didn’t stop, no pain response to deter him.

“It’d feel better with _lube_, damnit,” Hank grit out, through clenched teeth.

He felt Connor smile against his neck, then moaned in loss when that silky-warm hand left his dick. Connor’s face also pulled away, but his arm stayed locked around Hank’s middle. He did something Hank couldn’t see – something that sounded suspiciously like _spitting_ – but before the lieutenant could twist to look, Connor returned. He wrapped his palm once more around Hank’s flushed shaft, and this time–

“O-oh, _fuck_–!”

–his slim fingers were wet, slippery with something hot and slick and _oh-so-good_.

Hank knew what it was, but the animal part of his brain didn’t give a shit. Very emphatically did not give a shit. He groaned and tightened his grip of Connor’s curls, encouraging him as he began to stroke again. The makeshift lube smoothed each motion, a blissful glide that made Hank’s gut draw tight and his breaths go thin. He climbed fast. The heat was luxurious, the pressure downright _sinful_, sweet and rough and electric.

Not for the first time, he dimly wondered where Connor learned his technique. Maybe constant mental access to the Internet wasn’t a good thing, after all. Not for Hank’s heart, anyway.

When Connor thumbed the head of Hank’s dick, the old man saw stars.

He was dimly aware that Connor kept stroking him, even as Hank spilled over his knuckles. He was _not_ aware of the embarrassing sounds that tumbled from his mouth, or the way his toes curled in his shoes and his knees almost buckled like this was his first goddamn handjob. Nope. No-siree, not at all.

When he could finally breathe again, and his muscles unclenched, Hank whined as the pleasure began to cross into overstimulation. Connor released his spent cock at once, his messy hand instead jumping up to rub Hank’s belly through his shirt. The smears of their combined fluids didn’t exactly blend with the garish print, but right now Hank couldn’t bring himself to care. He slumped back against Connor and the android held him tight, kissing hard at his sweaty nape through tangled grey hair.

“That …” Hank managed, feeling like his bones were made of jelly, “…was disgusting.”

Somewhere behind him, Connor chuckled. The rare sound dazed Hank more than his orgasm. “I enjoyed it very much too, Lieutenant.”


	2. Sleepy Sex

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When Connor is needy one night, Hank battles tiredness to help him out.

~

“Hank.”

The lieutenant grunted into his pillow, hugged it so close to his face that breathing became difficult. He didn’t much notice, nor care, still submerged in the velvet ether of half-sleep.

“Hank.”

A second whine of his name pierced the fog, and Hank cracked open one eye.

Heavy shadows swathed the bedroom, the clock on the cabinet glowing faint through the dark. For a moment, the numbers on its display appeared to Hank as a foreign language. _02:31_. He stared at the digits flatly, blinking slow while his reluctant brain creaked into gear.

Sensations began to register. The weight of the winter duvet over him, the straggly tickle of his own hair in his face, and … _warmth_. Persistent, smothering warmth … the unmistakeable heat of a body, spooning him from behind. Hank almost drifted off again at the cosy comfort of it. His bedmate lacked fur, which meant Sumo hadn’t wormed his way between the sheets again. Hank gradually became aware of a slim hand slotted under his armpit, a heavy leg hooked over his hip … and the smooth, familiar planes of a humanlike torso moulded to the curve of his spine.

Ah, Connor. Of course. Hmm … he didn’t remember falling asleep in this position, but … right now, it sounded like a very good idea.

“Hank, I can read your biorhythms. I know you’re awake.”

Hank managed a grumble, gruff and coarse in his parched throat. At the noise, Connor nestled closer against him. Hips shimmying, arm and leg squeezing, the whole shebang. Connor then pushed his too-warm face into the back of Hank’s neck – and let out a strained little sob.

“Hank, _please_.”

Fuck, well _now_ he was awake.

The lieutenant raised himself on one stiff elbow, and rolled over to face his partner. The slide of Connor’s limbs over him as he turned was the polar opposite of disorienting, slapping him alert. His first thought was that the kid’d had a nightmare. Christ knew he’d seen enough shit worthy of them, in the few short months he’d been alive. The world stayed blurred at the edges and Hank’s eyes stung like hell, but he had enough wits about him to sense something was wrong.

The android lay on his side, folded in on himself with nothing to hold, LED burning red through the gloom. He’d tossed the covers off of himself at some point in the night, naked save for his boxer briefs. His eyes gleamed wet, his expression apologetic, hair tousled where he’d raked his fingers through it more than once.

“Hank….”

Feebly, he reached out across the sheets.

Hank caught him by the wrist and reeled him in without hesitation, pulled Connor against his front in low-key alarm. Connor went easily, body tense. The sheets creased and pooled as Hank slung his half of the duvet over them both, the creaks of the mattress like whispers in the night.

Hank kissed Connor’s temple, exhaled so deep through his nose that the gust ruffled those synthetic curls. He found the back of Connor’s head by touch and petted his hair with eyes closed, rubbing in what he hoped was a soothing motion. Connor twitched in response, shuffled as though uncomfortable where he lay.

Distant, delayed confusion made Hank pause. Androids didn’t get uncomfortable.

“Con…?” he said. He craned his neck back to try and search Connor’s expression, but his smaller bedmate buried his face in the voluminous pillows. The position put his little scarlet ring slap-bang in front of Hank’s eyes, making him squint to shield his tired retinas. “S’matter, honey?”

At the rare pet name, Connor wriggled again. He ducked and pressed his thin nose into the crease of T-shirt between Hank’s pectorals, and Hank heard him inhale long and slow. Even in his fugue state, Hank remembered androids didn’t need oxygen. The kid was sampling his scent, no doubt. Weird … but strangely sweet.

“I’m sorry to wake you,” Connor murmured, voice muffled against Hank’s shirt. He adjusted the angle of his head, crown scraping Hank’s beard while he squirmed lower under the blanket. “I tracked your breathing … waited until you had finished a cycle of REM sleep. I didn’t want to disturb your quality of rest.”

“S’okay,” the lieutenant slurred. He gathered his partner in a clumsy hug, and planted a lingering kiss to his smooth forehead. Connor seemed so frail in his thick arms, even though Hank knew he wasn’t, all thin and angular. The yin to Hank’s yang.

Once more, Connor fidgeted in his grip.

Despite his concern, exhaustion lulled Hank back down. It _was_ ass o’clock in the morning, after all. He wanted nothing more than to nod off like this … tangled in Connor. “Did you have a bad dream?” he managed to ask.

To his surprise, Connor shook his head against him. Hank then felt him rearrange those long limbs once more in the embrace – and startled awake when lithe fingers hooked into the waistband of his sleep-shorts.

Brow knit, Hank raised his head from his pillow. He couldn’t see Connor’s face, not when the guy was trying to burrow it through to Hank’s ribcage, but–

“Con,” he said thickly. The heat of his partner’s body and the way he couldn’t _keep still_ made sudden sense in Hank’s sluggish, addled mind. “Are you … are you _horny_?”

Connor seemed to wilt where he lay. “I’m sorry,” he whined into Hank’s chest. His LED began to pinwheel beside the man’s stubbled cheek, still red but spinning with embarrassment. The light show played like ripples on the ceiling above. “I did have a dream, but … it wasn’t … _bad_….”

Hank blinked, one eyelid sticking shut longer than the other.

Connor jerked back, just enough to meet Hank’s stare. His freckled face bore a deep flush, his mouth downturned, torn between lust and humiliation. Hank couldn’t take precise measurements at a glance, like androids could, but he’d swear Connor’s pupils were bigger than normal, gleaming like gemstones in the dark.

“I _can’t stop_ thinking about it,” Connor blurted out. “But I – my genital attachment is soaking in the bathroom overnight, and I – I’m so sorry – anything I do to myself isn’t _enough_, but I didn’t want to disturb you by getting up–”

“Hey, _hey_ …” Hank spoke over him. Connor’s tormented explanation slammed to a halt, a deafening silence left in its wake. He bit his lip, brow furrowing in those three perfect lines and Hank’s heart did a somersault at the sight.

Trying not to think about plasteel dicks floating in a bowl of disinfectant, Hank flopped onto his back. He dragged a hand over his scruffy face, and considered switching on the bedside lamp before he thought better of it. Connor probably had some fuckin’ night-vision setting, or something. He shoved lazily at his own shorts, too tired and uncoordinated to put much effort into it.

“Consider me disturbed,” he groused, though not unkindly.

Yellow flickered into the dim light show on the ceiling. The mattress dipped as Connor rose to his knees, the duvet slipping off him with a _flump_. Hank then sensed that piercing stare boring into the side of his face, and glanced up to find Connor frozen over him.

He honest-to-God looked like he’d seen a ghost. He didn’t even appear to be breathing – which, yeah, was probably the truth. Connor tended to forget shit like that when he was startled or excited.

“Are you sure…?” he whispered.

Hank gave up trying to push down his shorts, and instead stretched out where he lay. Bones popped in his back and he nodded his consent, which he then followed up with a slothful “go for it” for good measure.

Connor was on him in an instant, tossing aside the covers to straddle Hank’s hips in a cowgirl position. He flung his briefs across the room without ceremony, though was more careful with Hank’s shorts. Like a man on a mission – which, in a way, Hank supposed he was – Connor got straight to work, stroking and teasing to reroute blood to Hank’s flaccid cock.

Had he more presence of mind, Hank would’ve felt bad for letting Connor do all the work. But, it was quite literally the middle of the night – and he’d been in a dead sleep not ten minutes prior. If Connor had any complaints about his partner’s lack of involvement, he wasn’t voicing them.

In any event, Hank planned to make it up to him in the morning. For now, he sprawled out and let his sore eyes fall shut. There was no danger of drifting off again just yet – not with Connor’s focused, skilful ministrations shooting sparks through his groin every few seconds.

Once Hank Junior was hard enough to stand up on his own, Connor manoeuvred to line himself up.

The fact that Connor had detachable genitals still weirded Hank out a bit, sometimes. Technically, they were _interchangeable_ genitals … but since these ‘add-ons’ were so expensive – thank you, CyberLife – he’d only purchased the one when he developed an interest in sex. He’d removed the phallus earlier that night for routine cleaning, and covered the gap it left behind with his old chastity plate. Right now, there was nothing but creamy-smooth skin between his legs.

Connor’s ‘back door’, however, was more permanent.

Hank sighed loud when he felt his tip nudge that flawless entrance. Connor gripped him gently for a better angle, then sank down.

_All_ the way down.

Twin moans of satisfaction filled the unlit bedroom, Connor’s an octave higher from relief. Hank was glad they’d shed the duvet: the sudden heat and pressure that enveloped him had sweat beading all over his body. Connor’s free hand landed in a fist on his belly, supporting his substantial weight as he hunched over. Hank half-rose to catch him by the shoulders – before Connor arched back beautifully, flickers of off-white and grey showing through his dermal layer.

“Oh – oh – _Hank_–”

The lieutenant hissed, grabbed the sides of his pillow for something to hold. _Hot_, Connor was always so fuckin’ _hot_ inside, slick with self-lubrication that gave his partner a good idea of how long he’d tried to get himself off. He smelled like silicone and overtaxed machinery, ozone on his breath. Tight walls, squeezing and fluttering, cashmere-soft and wonderful. Hank groaned while they both adjusted, semi-conscious beneath a blissful haze.

He felt so good. Comfortable, cosy. Lethargy again crept in at the edges, broken for a moment when his partner began to roll his hips. Hank tried to meet his thrusts, he did, but time eluded him and Connor seemed to do all right without him anyway. Connor moved like a lapping tide against him, warm surf on the sand, rocking him into the mattress in a slow, tender tempo. The lullaby of his soft little sounds nudged Hank under, and he dozed on-and-off while Connor chased his own pleasure.

When Hank startled back to alertness, the movements had stopped.

The room was still dark, a heavy weight crushed to his torso. Heavier than Sumo, but all Hank could see when he looked down was black. He stared around in confusion, disoriented until he found the clock on the nightstand.

04:09.

Connor lay in standby atop him, snuggled down on his ample chest. He’d doubled over in place, still naked, still kneeling astride Hank’s pelvis with the lieutenant soft inside him. Hank held in a snort. No human being could sleep like that. He reached blindly aside for the blankets, to grant them some degree of dignity and insulation, and Connor stirred at the movement.

The android raised his head just enough to meet Hank’s gaze, tousled and sleep-soft. His LED pulsed blue. A dozy smile stretched his lips wide, his curls a forest of knots, and he lay back down as if Hank were his own personal pillow.

“Thank you, Lieutenant.”

This time, Hank didn’t swallow his snort. “Nn, I literally jus’ lay here,” he said. He breathed deep, and Connor’s blank pubic plate rubbed against his gut. “Shit … can you even, I mean … _finish_ … like this?”

Connor clicked his tongue, eyes already closed. “Not in the way you’re thinking,” he murmured. “I cannot ejaculate without a genital attachment … but, yes. I finished.”

Hank scrubbed a hand over his face. Four in the morning was _not_ his favourite time for such clinical language. “Well … good,” he said. “Glad you feel better.”

Connor hummed.


	3. Food Play

~

_Theobromine, soy lecithin, lactose. Sucrose, stearic acid, triglycerides._

Connor rolled the sample around his mouth, tonguing his soft palate to engage as many sensors as possible. As well as the clinical breakdown from his analysis kit, CyberLife’s recent gustatory upgrade gave him a basic sense of taste. It wasn’t as complex as a human’s, but enough that he could identify basic flavours. The main element of his sample was the unmistakeable bitterness of cocoa, a little creamy, with floral undertones and a hint of vanilla.

He settled more comfortably into the armchair in the corner of Hank’s bedroom – _their_ bedroom, now – and looked up to where the lieutenant stood expectant before him. Moonlight poured in shafts through the blinds, the room illuminated by the bedside lamp. Both men still wore their day clothes, worn at the edges from a long shift at work.

“Melted chocolate,” Connor assessed. He licked a smear of it from his upper lip, fingers linked in his lap. “Dark … I’d say, seventy percent.”

“Got it in one,” said Hank. Grinning, he popped the teaspoon he’d used to feed Connor the sample into his own mouth. He sucked the metal clean, then pulled it out with a _pop_. His eyes twinkled, eagerness in every crease of his face. “You wanna try?”

Connor matched his smile.

To celebrate cracking a tricky double-homicide, Hank had suggested something new. While Connor never would’ve thought to use _food_ in the bedroom himself, he took a certain curiosity in what humans found arousing. Seeing the lieutenant turned-on turned _Connor_ on, and he was more than happy to indulge the man’s sexual whims. They were interesting … and often a lot of fun.

“I do,” he said. “You have me intrigued.”

Hank’s grin grew wider, and he reversed a step in the direction of the open doorway. Connor reached out before he could flee, and dragged his partner down for a kiss by the front of his obnoxious shirt. The cocoa taste lingered on Hank’s tongue – in Connor’s opinion, even more delicious when mixed with his saliva.

Connor moaned into the kiss, but Hank made a reluctant noise and pulled away. He stroked Connor’s cheek to placate him, expression apologetic.

“Hold up, kiddo,” said Hank. “I’ll be right back. If it burns, the whole house’ll stink for days.”

Connor pouted, but let him go. Though he’d never smelled burnt chocolate himself, research assured him the scent would be acrid.

Hank hurried from the bedroom as if on the tail of a suspect, and Connor cranked up his hearing to listen. He heard the lieutenant bustle about the kitchen a moment, then switch off the gas burner. A curious huff from Sumo followed, whom Connor imagined still lay on his blanket under the radiator. Next came a scrape of metal as Hank lifted a pan from the stovetop, the cheery tune he hummed to himself interspersed with cutlery sounds.

Connor dialled his auditory processors back down, and rose to his feet. Though it didn’t show much in his face or posture, excitement thrummed through his thirium lines. He efficiently removed his blazer, tie, and shirt, and folded them in a neat pile on the floor by the wardrobe. He shed his belt and shoes but left his jeans and socks on, knowing that Hank liked to strip him of those himself.

Fidgety with anticipation, Connor perched on the foot of the bed to wait. Six-point-three-eight seconds later, his partner returned.

The lieutenant held a drizzle bottle in one hand, the squeezable plastic kind, filled with thick, dark brown liquid. In the other hand, he carried a store-brand jar of honey and a fresh tablespoon. Connor inclined his head at the latter. Hank shrugged in response, and hip-checked the bedroom door shut to keep Sumo out.

“I got a sweet tooth tonight,” said Hank. His smirk turned sly. “O’course, the sweetest thing around here is _you_, so….”

Caught off-guard, Connor felt his flush response trigger. It burned his cheeks and he scrambled to deactivate it, but Hank had already seen. “Just–” Connor forced out, in broken soundbytes, “–get over here before it freezes solid.”

Hank chortled to himself. Connor exhaled his embarrassment while his partner approached, reset his skin tone to clear the ruddiness. Compliments still blindsided him with a variety of emotions, not all of them appropriate.

Then again, Connor’s definition of ‘appropriate’ had changed a lot since he met Lieutenant Anderson.

Hank set tonight’s toys down on the bedside cabinet, the palm he laid on Connor’s jaw warmer than usual from the bottle. The contact chased away whatever tension remained in Connor’s endoskeleton. He sighed fondly, no grudge harboured, and Hank stooped to kiss him for real.

There was no urgency to it, gentle and unhurried. Hank licked his way into Connor’s mouth, still clothed. His free hand glided up the android’s smooth stomach to settle on his chest, and he gave a gentle push. Connor lowered himself with grace, slow enough that Hank could climb atop him and not part their lips. They shuffled up the bed, toward the pillows, the mattress rocking like a ship on the sea beneath their weight. Hank’s hair dusted both of their faces, the curve of his belly heavy atop Connor’s flat one.

They didn’t jump straight into business. Instead, the couple enjoyed each other’s ministrations until the chocolate had cooled enough for safe play. Connor’s dermal layer held no pain receptors, but Hank’s _did_. The android took this time to remove his burly partner’s shirts – relishing the texture of real, plush skin against the bare chassis of his fingers. The faded lines of Hank’s tattoo seemed to dance in the glow from Connor’s naked hands, a hidden treasure amid the forest of handsome grey chest hair.

Connor spread his legs and Hank settled between them, bedsprings pinging as he reached for the bottle on the nightstand. Connor stuffed a pillow under his own back to prop himself up, his mole-speckled torso at a twenty degree angle from the mattress. He could smell it, the cocoa, rich and appetizing amid the neutral scents of the bedroom and Hank’s splendid body.

“You’re a peach for lettin’ me do this,” Hank praised.

Connor sprawled out beneath him. “Peaches and chocolate pair well, I’m told,” he teased.

The first, testing drizzle of chocolate had them both holding their breath. A dark bead swelled at the tip of the bottle, glossy and thick where Hank held the container upside-down. It caught the light spectacularly, almost like oil, and oozed in a heavy, slow rope from the nozzle.

After several still seconds, the rope snapped and three droplets _plopped_ onto Connor’s chest. They struck him on the left pectoral, loud and wet in the dim bedroom, a trio of dots that at first resembled new, extra-large freckles.

When they began to drip, following the curve of his breast, Connor shivered.

The sensation was peculiar. It made him twitch – the pleasant crawl of warm, viscous fluid over his finely tuned tactile sensors. Connor squirmed, fisting both hands in the sheets. He felt every millimetre, hyperaware of his skin. The chocolate travelled _so slow_ but was impossible to ignore, made his body tingle and tense up. If he’d had organic hair, it would be standing on end.

“Too hot?” asked Hank, somewhere above him.

Connor focused past the feeling to find his partner’s eyes sharp and watchful, frame taut with concern where he knelt over him. Hank held the bottle away, upright so it wouldn’t leak further. Connor let his spine sink into the duvet, hips shimmying of their own accord.

“It’s fine,” he said. Two of the dripping paths merged together once they reached his sternum, and the extra weight caused the crawl to speed up. Connor didn’t know if it was more or less maddening than before. “It’s … good, in a strange way.”

Hank swapped the bottle to his left hand, and used the right to thumb a streak through the dark rivulets. Connor raised his head to watch, stared as Hank sucked the sticky digit clean. A surface scan told him the lieutenant’s pulse was elevated, heat centred in his chest and crotch. Connor bit his lip, struck by sudden understanding of why his partner found this activity so attractive.

Sensual. It was sensual.

Hank poured a second, longer trickle of molten chocolate onto Connor’s chest. It pooled at first below the ring of his pump regulator, safely away from the seam, then drizzled his midriff in a thin, winding trail. Connor felt hotter where the tacky substance gathered, the rivers meandering down his synthetic musculature. Connor craned his neck to observe. He itched all over, driven half to oversensitivity by the sluggish descent.

Absolutely, he found it erotic.

He was so engrossed, he didn’t notice Hank hunching forward until the man had boxed him in. Hank’s large hands splayed on the mattress above Connor’s hips, pinned him down without contact. He turned his head in such a way that Connor could see exactly what he was doing, and swooped in with an open mouth.

He licked a stripe up Connor’s stomach, catching the lowest drip before it reached his waistband. Connor choked on analysis fluid. Hank’s hot tongue gathered most but not all of the chocolate, rough tastebuds lathing over Connor’s abdomen. Some got on his nose and in his beard, a line of saliva in his wake. He squeezed Connor’s thighs with a satisfied hum, lapping up the bittersweet liquid as if dehydrated.

Before Hank even made it to his partner’s chest, Connor seized him by the hair and yanked him into a bruising kiss. Chocolate smudged between their lips, the burst of flavour an explosion on Connor’s palate. It was wet, messy, fevered. Connor licked Hank’s face clean as best he could, suckling on his chin while the lieutenant dragged a palm through the smears on his partner’s stomach.

“Fuck,” Hank hissed. “You taste good.”

Connor thought about correcting him. Thought about reminding him that synthskin had no flavour, and telling Hank that he should thank the squeeze-bottle instead.

He _thought_ about it.

They repeated the pattern until the bottle ran empty: pour, tongue away, kiss each other clean. They swapped roles, experimented. Their jeans and shoes wound up crumpled together on the floor. Connor particularly enjoyed licking chocolate from Hank’s bellybutton like a body shot, and the lieutenant moaned loud when Connor later bit his thigh on impulse. No inch of skin escaped unscathed, no seam or stretch mark. They got each other off with their hands and mouths alone, the duvet creased and stained beyond repair.

They never even opened the jar of honey.

_Next time_, Connor promised.


	4. Masochism

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Connor and Hank borrow a Taser from work. Not all goes to plan, and that’s okay.

~

Connor loved Hank for a myriad of reasons.

He was selfless and kind, even if the rough-and-tumble exterior gave most people a different first impression. He cared deeply for those he let in; he was thoughtful and brave, and would stick his neck out for anyone who’d earned his trust. Hank had endured dark things, _terrible_ things, but he still stood strong. Stronger now, with Connor at his side.

Connor loved that Hank let him see it all. The bad days, and his rage at the fucked-up world around him. The bad days proved Hank was human. He was special, and Connor felt privileged to be a part of his life.

Connor loved _making_ _love_ with Hank, too. He liked to feel treasured, and to treasure Hank in return, to share intimate moments and insecurities and tender touches. With Hank, Connor felt alive. He felt valued, needed, happy, and all sorts of other things androids weren’t built for.

Sometimes, it got a little too much.

Sometimes, on _his_ bad days, Connor wanted to be hurt.

Androids didn’t feel pain in the same way humans did, but a strong jolt of electricity caused discordant feedback in their version of a nervous system. At a high enough amplitude, it could lock up motor groups. Burn out wires. Cause short-circuits, which led to forced reboots like fainting spells. Connor had no desire to pass out or fry his motherboards, but he theorised that a certain amount of ‘pain’ might be stimulating.

The Taser from work had been Hank’s idea.

At first, Hank had no interest whatsoever in causing Connor pain. But after a few months, much research, and many long and serious talks, he agreed to try it. Studies said it could be beneficial for them both, solidifying the trust in their relationship. It might even prove cathartic – therapeutic escape, venting emotions Connor otherwise still struggled to process in his deviancy.

The couple laid down ground rules and safe words, and discussed the idea at length. Hank would open a panel in Connor’s back and remove the Taser’s cartridge, and shock his insides directly with the arc that sparked between its electrodes. Since Connor’s body was insulated, shocking the outside of his chassis would do little but short out his skin. On the plus side, though, this insulation meant he wouldn’t conduct the current on to Hank. The lieutenant decided to wear a condom anyway, just in case.

At last, they were ready. They booked an evening off work and had Detective Collins take Sumo over to his place, and set up an air mattress and comfy sheets on the garage floor.

That was Hank’s idea, too. If something went wrong, he didn’t want either Connor or himself to associate their bedroom with bad memories.

“You’re doin’ so well, honey.”

Hank made love to Connor slowly, doggy style, gentle and tender with reassuring kisses dotted about his nape and shoulders. The wan garage bulbs didn’t do much in the way of mood lighting, and the stacked boxes of junk around their discarded clothes likewise could not be called romantic. In short: it was their most unique sex experience to date.

The first _snap_ of electricity inside Connor’s back had him arching.

The cords and cables around his spinal column seized up, contracted tight and for a moment he couldn’t move. It felt like orgasm, but without the pleasure – everything stiff and tense beyond his control. The garage whited out as his senses crossed, the crackling clicks of the device a thousand miles away.

The current vanished almost as soon as it began, and Connor groaned once his body unclenched. Aftershocks jittered through his limbs. He flexed his fingers and toes experimentally, facedown with Hank paused fully sheathed behind him.

“Talk to me, Con.”

“I-I’m okay,” he said. His voice left its modulator a little thin, but a quick restart of that software solved the problem for now. If he were human, he imagined he would be breathless. “It … it’s more intense than I expected.”

Beyond Connor’s field of vision, Hank let out the softest of snorts. “Fifty-thousand volts ain’t exactly a tickle,” he said. A worried hand then drifted up the small of Connor’s back, massaging under the open panel. “You wanna stop?”

“No,” said Connor. He shifted his knees an inch wider apart, his forearms and brow braced in the squashy mattress. His cock hung heavy between his thighs, hard and throbbing. He ignored it. “I’ve isolated my vital systems. You won’t damage me, Hank. I promise.”

Even with that assertion, over five seconds passed before Hank moved again.

He rolled his hips and Connor tumbled into familiar bliss, soothed by the hand on his back and the weight of Hank’s gut on his rear. The lieutenant’s pulse hovered within acceptable limits; since they’d never done anything like this before, the two had established beforehand that either of them could pull the plug if needed. Hank had as much right to call it off as Connor did, and the android didn’t want him to press on if he was unhappy.

Hank gave Connor’s cock a few loving strokes before he shocked him again.

The second arc bit just as sudden as the first, lighting up his insides. It scorched his awareness of space and time, a bolt of lightning straight to his thirium pump that punched a rough “_ah!_” from his mouth. Hank tore the Taser away at the cry. Connor’s dermal layer glitched and flickered around the open panel, his LED flashing angrily while he fisted both hands in his own hair. Warnings filled his vision like pop-ups but he dismissed them all, disabled everything except for vital alerts.

Hank’s palm massaged the base of his spine with more urgency. “Breathe, Con,” he cooed. “Cool yourself down. What’s your colour, honey?”

Connor sucked in a lungful of cold, refreshing air. The scents of rubber and mould assaulted his tongue, damp cardboard from the storage boxes. “G-green,” he managed.

Hank doubled over him in response, kissed him hard between the shoulder blades. His beard scratched the heightened sensors under Connor’s skin. “You’re doin’ so good, baby….”

A particularly fierce aftershock made Connor wince. He _ached_, biocomponents overheating from stimulation without release. He half-considered touching himself to ease the pressure in his dick, until Hank’s hand settled around it for him. Connor’s moan bounced off the thin garage walls, hips grinding against Hank’s in gratitude.

There was a curt scrape of plastic, and Connor glanced aside to spot the Taser on the floor nearby. He raised his head in confusion – but before he could speak, both of Hank’s thick arms wrapped around his midriff. Hank sat back on his ass and hauled the android into his lap, a clumsy shift that did fascinating things to where their bodies joined. The angle and gravity made Connor sink deeper onto his partner, and they both voiced their satisfaction at the feeling.

Connor let himself sag against Hank’s front, hooked an arm behind their heads to finger-comb the man’s long hair. The open panel closed of its own accord. “Hank …” he whined. “Please, again….”

Hank kissed the side of his neck with force. “Where d’you want it, sweetheart?”

Connor placed his free hand over one of Hank’s, still crossed over his abdomen. He guided it up, along the freckled canvas of synthskin to the circular seam of his pump regulator. Excitement fluttered in his core. Hank went still when he peered down over Connor’s chest to look at the indicated area.

“Jesus,” he bit out. “You sure you want me to take that out? I mean, ain’t it kind of … _important_?”

He was thinking, no doubt, of the time he’d seen Connor stagger from the Stratford Tower kitchen, his shirt torn open and chest smothered in blue blood. Connor nuzzled his cheek against Hank’s, eyes closed in a show of trust. “I’ll be fine,” he promised. “I’m only in danger of damage if you apply the current for over eight seconds at a time, or if we leave the regulator out for too long. Even then, we have a full two minutes before I shut down.”

Hank was quiet. He squeezed Connor tighter, his hairy face buried in the sharp angle of Connor’s neck. Connor felt his partner soften a little inside him – and realised he may have asked for too much.

“Hank,” he said gently. He tried to twist and look the man in the eye, but Hank only held him firmer. Though Connor had the strength to break free and face him, it didn’t feel like the right thing to do. He cupped Hank’s jaw the best he could at this angle, scratching his nails through the coarse hair. “Hank … if you don’t want to, that’s okay. I won’t be upset.”

The shaky sigh Hank let out confirmed Connor’s suspicion that he’d pushed too far. “Sorry, kiddo,” murmured Hank, into his partner’s clavicle. “I just … I don’t wanna break you.”

Connor tried to turn again, and this time Hank lessened his grip enough to let him. The android pulled off and grabbed a spare sheet from the floor, and draped it over both of their laps for dignity. He knelt between Hank’s thighs, faced him head-on to talk – but Hank wouldn’t look at him. The lieutenant’s whole head was flushed, his posture awkward and contrite.

“We can keep goin’,” he rumbled. “I can … I can do it someplace else–”

“No,” Connor spoke over him. He cupped Hank’s lined face in both palms, his smile sympathetic. Reluctant, Hank met his deep brown eyes with apologetic blue ones. “We’re stopping. You’re unhappy, and I don’t want to continue if that’s the case. I’m satisfied with what we’ve done so far.”

“But, you haven’t–”

“_No_, Hank. It’s okay. I’m fine.”

In his hold, Hank relaxed. His shoulders slumped, head tipping forward in acceptance. Connor pressed a kiss to his sweaty forehead, then pulled him into a hug. They embraced warmly, soothing each other with rubs and pecks and little nuzzles. The Taser lay abandoned on the garage floor, forgotten.

“I love you so much, Con,” sighed Hank, as he crushed the android to his chest.

Connor smiled into his broad shoulder. “I love _you_,” he said. “You did so well, Hank. Thank you for indulging me.”

After several long minutes, Connor helped his partner stand and get dressed. They didn’t talk much, bustling around each other to clear away the evidence of their activities. Once the air mattress was deflated and stored away, Connor sent his partner to sit on the couch while he got them both drinks.

A beer and mug of Thirium 310 in either hand, Connor entered the lounge to the sight of Hank piling pillows and blankets on the sofa. Hank gestured him over with a grin, and the two curled together in a cosy nest. They turned on the TV to a cheesy old detective movie, and spent an hour pointing out the film’s errors and inconsistencies.

Connor loved Hank for a myriad of reasons. His willingness to try new things, even if they didn’t turn out, was one of them.


	5. Temperature Play

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Connor buys candles.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote this before realising that temperature play and wax play are two separate things. Ah well ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯

~

They found out by accident.

Hank had been giving Sumo a bath in the tub, sleeves rolled up and skin flushed from the hot water. Connor, meanwhile, was in the kitchen, digging through the freezer for expired products and leftovers. Such a chill didn’t bother him: he’d survived a Detroit winter and Amanda’s garden, after all, and the freezer wasn’t cold enough to damage his biocomponents. The warning on his optical display was easily dismissed, so he thought nothing of it.

Once he’d thrown out the ruined food, Connor headed to help Hank in the bathroom. The lieutenant was knelt on the floor beside the tub, his hair tied up. He always looked so handsome in a stubby ponytail, the android thought. The nape of Hank’s neck had been exposed, at the perfect height for Connor to sneak up and ghost his hands over in precursor to a kiss.

They never got that far.

The instant Connor’s cold fingertips made contact, Hank’s whole body had jolted. His yelp echoed off the tile and he dropped the bottle of dog shampoo into the tub with a _sploosh_, his spine snapping taut like a bowstring.

He hadn’t scolded Connor for surprising him. Instead, once he’d caught his breath, Hank dared him to do it again. Slipping a frigid hand under his clothes provoked a reaction neither of them expected, a heightening of sensitivity that soon morphed into arousal.

One chilly hand job later, Hank’s only criticism had been that Connor warmed up too fast.

Over time, they improved their technique. Connor recorded and studied their experiments meticulously. Hank reacted best to a mix of hot and cold, alternated in random patterns. He preferred it tame, ice cubes and Connor’s heated hands. A few times, they’d tried a chilled glass dildo. Hank didn’t much care for that, so they limited temperature play to external skin only.

One unseasonably cold evening – cold enough for Hank to break out his ugly sweater collection – Connor thought they could try something new.

He led his grumpy partner through the dark house by his forearm, slipping one hand up Hank’s woollen sleeve to pet hair-dusted muscle. Connor’s palm burned hotter than usual: he’d raised his internal temperature by eighteen degrees, a noticeable difference in the cool hallway. If the force with which Hank assaulted his mouth was anything to go by, he approved one-hundred percent.

Connor guided him to the bedroom, where he’d cleared the dresser and laid out a handful of soy candles. One white amid an array of deep purples and reds, scented with jasmine and violet. Their dancing flames were the sole source of light in the room, far away from anything flammable. Connor had also tossed an old sheet over the mattress, a coffee-stained blanket that Hank had never gotten around to throwing out.

Hank took one look at the setup and chortled, a good-natured sound that boosted Connor’s temperature further. “Guess someone’s in the mood,” he said.

With a soft smile, Connor circled around to teasingly push Hank into the room. Hank made a show of stumbling. They crashed together inside the threshold, kissing deep while Connor kicked the door shut and steered his partner backwards toward the bed. The breeze as they passed caused the lit candles to sputter. Hank’s calves hit the side of the bed and he fell back, flopped onto his ass in a squeak of springs. He smirked up at Connor, eyes bright and pullover askew on his shoulders.

Standing tall over him, Connor stripped without hesitation. The cold didn’t faze him. Hank was more reluctant to remove his layers, content instead to lie there and watch the show.

Once nude, Connor pouted at Hank’s state of dress. He planted a knee on the edge of the bed and licked his way into Hank’s mouth, tonguing the gap in his front teeth. While the lieutenant was distracted, Connor hooked hot fingers under the hem of the sweater and pulled up.

Hank batted him off without vitriol. “C’mon, Con,” he griped against the android’s jaw. “It’s thirty fuckin’ degrees outside. Can’t I leave my clothes on?”

“Thirty-_five_ degrees,” Connor corrected him. He leaned back with a devilish smirk, and tugged light on the base of the turtleneck. “Don’t worry, Lieutenant. I’ll warm you up soon, I promise.”

Hank shuddered, more from Connor’s sultry tone than the cold.

He let Connor disrobe him, his disgruntled grumbling muffled when the sweater was yanked over his head. It left his hair a dishevelled mess, one Connor gladly combed his fingers through. Connor then removed his partner’s T-shirt, underlying vest, and trousers in a sensual striptease, savouring every moment.

Once he was undressed, Hank crossed his arms over his bare chest to retain body heat. His nipples hardened in the bitter air, tattooed skin stippling like gooseflesh. The organic process made Connor salivate.

In a small act of mercy, he let Hank keep his socks on.

With the lieutenant naked, Connor dropped his sexy act. Serious and focused, he knelt on the floor to address his partner from a less dominating angle. “Before we begin,” he said, “what are your feelings toward hot wax?”

Hank stared down at him for a moment, as if thrown by the sudden question. His eyes then widened when it clicked his brain, and he glanced to the dresser of candles with new understanding.

“It could be hot?” he said, then grimaced. “N-not hot as in – I know it’s gonna be – ah, fuck it, you know what I mean. _Sexy_-hot.”

Connor smiled. “I’ve researched wax play thoroughly,” he told his flustered partner. Hank shuffled his sock-clad feet on the carpet, and Connor inclined his head. “If you’d like to try it, I will take good care of you. If not, we can proceed with normal intercourse and use the candles for ambiance.”

Hank met Connor’s stare with determination. For once, he didn’t call out the android’s clinical language. Instead his throat rippled in a swallow, and he nodded once. “I’m game for wax,” he said.

Connor straightened up. Excellent.

Rather than commit a sin and shave off that glorious body hair, Connor coated Hank’s skin in a layer of baby oil. It would make the dried wax easier to remove later, he explained. Hank joked that he felt like a wrestler from the ancient Olympics, all slathered up and slippery. He flushed deep when Connor told him Hank wore it better than any athlete, and that the Ancient Greeks believed such beauty a gift from the gods.

Sufficiently protected, Hank lay down atop the old sheet. On his back, legs crossed as if lounging, one arm out for Connor to slot himself against Hank’s side. Connor slid into place on the bed, propped up on one elbow to better access the masterpiece of his partner’s shapely torso. Hank’s arm hooked around his back, a half-hug to hold him close.

Connor reached over and – pausing to meet Hank’s lips on the way – took a lit candle from the bedside dresser.

He chose the white one with no scent, the least firm candle he’d laid out earlier. Its softness meant the wax melted at a lower temperature than the others, and thus was safer for play. Already, a milky pool had formed around the burning wick.

He tested it on himself, first, poured a trickle onto his palm. One hundred and thirty degrees Fahrenheit. The substance would cool long before there was any danger of it burning human skin. Perfect.

“Where would you like to start?” asked Connor.

Hank tore his eyes away from the candle, his cough loud in the quiet bedroom. He gestured awkwardly at his own chest, muttering “nipple” as if the word were taboo. Even that whisper seemed deafening.

After a moment of thought, Connor glanced to the heap of shed clothes on the floor. LED cycling yellow, he connected to Hank’s cell phone. Its screen lit up where it lay buried, and a sensual jazz playlist began to slink from its speaker.

Mood set, Connor wiped his palm clean on the old sheet. He held the candle at a calculated height from Hank’s chest, and linked their free hands to give Hank’s a squeeze. The lieutenant squeezed back, his grin equal parts nervous and excited.

“The first drops will feel the most intense,” said Connor. “If it’s too hot–”

Hank cut his partner off with a smooch to the cheek. “I’ll letcha know,” he said.

With that, Connor tipped the candle.

Molten wax like honey dribbled from the rim, splattering on the raised nub of Hank’s right nipple. He tensed at once, curling up and in on himself with a hiss. Pain tightened his features – pain that crashed headlong into pleasure, the hiss giving way to a guttural groan while the hot liquid set in place. He sank back into the mattress as if winded, then raised his head again to watch. Clear at first, the glossy droplets turned white and matte as they cooled. They formed pale speckles over the lines of his oil-slicked chest hair, like images blooming on a Polaroid photograph.

Connor righted the candle, and clutched Hank’s hand tight. “How does it feel?”

Hank let his head drop to the pillow, eyes shut while sweat beaded on his brow. “Awesome,” he bit out, then laughed. “Holy _shit_, Con. What the fuck. It hurt, but … not for long? Now it’s just … _fuck_….”

Connor watched him shimmy his hips, observed the beginnings of an erection between Hank’s shifting thighs. The sheen and slide of oil all over him made the sight even more stimulating, and Connor couldn’t help himself.

He held the candle to one side and craned closer, and touched his tongue to Hank’s nipple. _Linoleic acid, oleic acid, cellulose, sodium chloride, androstenone, ammonia_. Hank made a sour sound, as if expecting the wax to taste foul. Connor found that it had no flavour, but was partial to the composition of Hank’s sweat. He let his teeth scrape on the areola as he pulled away, drawing another hiss from his partner.

Hank responded well to the wax. Connor poured artful, geometric shapes across his chest and stomach – slow and delicate, letting his partner ride out the sensations between kisses and strokes. Hank’s toes curled when Connor revisited his nipples, the new heat less intense atop the hardened first layer. They tested a streak on Hank’s thigh, then rolled him over to pour a channel down the arch of his spine.

He was a panting, exhausted mess by the time the candle burned out.

Connor straddled his partner’s lower back to massage his strained muscles, kneading the pink flesh while he wiped away solidified wax. Most of the residue came free with ease, though the more stubborn dribbles might need use of hot water or a fine-toothed comb to remove.

“Christ almighty …” Hank growled into his pillow, facedown and spent. “That was fuckin’ incredible. I feel like I just got back from a spa day.”

Connor cocked his head, mentally scouring a list of online recommendations. “Though expensive,” he said, “hot candle massages are quite popular in certain circles. They incorporate natural essential oils to nourish the skin. Would you like me to book you a local appointment?”

Hank’s shoulders tensed where he lay. He turned his head without getting up, and squint-glared at the android through the knots of his splayed hair. “What,” he scoffed, “so I can have flashbacks to tonight, and pop a boner on the massage table? Yeah, no thanks.”

Connor smiled. He kneaded Hank’s back harder, wrenching a deep _pop_ from his fourth lumbar vertebra. Hank sighed appreciatively.

“True,” said Connor. “I don’t imagine I’d much like someone else touching your body, anyway.”

Hank’s pulse jumped.


	6. Cross-Dressing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Connor wears a skirt on date-night. Hank learns the ‘feminine’ getup extends beyond his clothes.

~

Hank had always thought Connor was attractive. But this … this took it to a whole new level.

The shape of his partner’s body was something Hank only ever saw during sex. His everyday clothes were slim-fit but never skin-tight, loose enough to leave a certain ambiguity about his build. On date nights, he’d spruce himself up a little. Neat suits, accents of colour, sometimes a sophisticated button-down – but nothing that clashed with his usual sense of fashion.

_Tonight’s_ date night was extra-special, however. It was the one-year anniversary of Connor’s activation, and he pulled out all the stops to celebrate.

Figure-hugging leggings squeezed his lower half, jet-black and tight enough that it looked like he’d painted them right onto his skin. Ankle boots showed off the arch of his feet, a hint of heel to them. His blouse, Hank could never imagine himself getting away with: a daring halterneck, deep blue with no sleeves or back, tailored to the slimness of his waist.

Most eye-catching, in Hank’s opinion, was his skirt.

Asymmetrical and sheer, the twisted fabric framed Connor’s hips like a waterfall of gossamer. It made him look taller, somehow, elegant, feminine in a way that suited his slender figure and soft-curled hair. Hank couldn’t help but stare, bewitched by his freckled skin and strong calves and the way the skirt clung to his backside when he walked.

Connor was goddamn beautiful.

To be honest, Hank found it hard to focus on the meal. They ate at a fancy upscale restaurant in downtown Detroit, the kind of place where food came in tiny portions with squiggles of sauce or pureed vegetables on the side. In the dim mood-lighting, Connor looked like a Persian goddess. The portion sizes were perfect for him, at least, with his small prototype stomach. He savoured every bite, graceful and demure while Hank sat across from him and missed his mouth with his fork.

Once their server had collected their plates, and left them with a dessert menu, Hank rested his elbows on the table to chat. “You’re a fuckin’ _knockout_ tonight, Con,” he muttered.

Connor glanced up from his menu, blinking in flattered surprise. Hank wanted to kiss him raw. The kid didn’t even _know_ how captivating he was.

They ordered desserts – Connor the crème brûlée, and Hank a slice of chocolate-strawberry torte – and held hands across the table while they waited. Hank wasn’t usually one for wine, but Connor’s choice of pinot noir paired well with the salmon and left the lieutenant all warm and tingly. The music in the restaurant swam low and seductive around them, a romantic air to the place.

This was Connor’s ‘birthday’, yet Hank felt like _he_ was the one being treated. The view in front of him was nothing less than stunning.

The desserts tasted every bit as good as the courses that came before. The _crack_ of Connor’s crème brûlée, the white chocolate sweetness of Hank’s torte … worth every dollar. And _many_ dollars, they spent. Hank almost fainted when the bill arrived, but he reminded himself that this was a celebration. Connor deserved the best.

They tipped well, and Connor called a cab while Hank visited the restroom. Hank then grabbed his jacket and the couple headed out, emerging into the last dregs of summer twilight. Their taxi sat ready on the curb, the evening balmy and golden.

The instant they set foot outside the restaurant, Hank seized his partner in a fiery kiss. He’d managed to keep his hands off for the whole time they’d been indoors, but that outfit was temptation incarnate. Connor ushered them off the street and into the back of the cab, not breaking away from Hank’s mouth. Still tongue-deep, he slapped a hand to the automated interface to set their destination.

The taxi rolled into motion but the pair didn’t bother strapping in, tangled together on the seats. Connor lay beneath his larger partner, on his bare back with the skirt spilling off his thigh and into the footwell. The position was cramped and haphazard, Connor’s long legs bent and Hank hunched double over him.

“You’re a menace,” Hank grunted, fondling Connor’s hard abdomen through the inky-black blouse. The back of a taxi wasn’t his first choice of venue to get physical – but it wasn’t his last, either. “Goddamn minx, showin’ off your gorgeous skin for everyone to see.”

Connor made a breathless sound against his throat, pinned down and pleased by Hank’s enthusiasm. The lieutenant seldom talked like this, so forward and possessive. The wine and Connor’s outfit was doing something to him, stoked a fierce affection that the android could probably read in his pulse.

With both arms wrapped around his partner’s broad shoulders, Connor pressed a knee to the underside of Hank’s crotch. Air snagged in Hank’s throat and he went still, biting back a groan.

“_Fuck_,” he breathed, once the shiver had passed. He buried his face in the side of Connor’s neck, rocking for sweet friction. “Jesus. If you weren’t wearin’ your chastity plate right now, I’d have you fuck me right here in this cab.”

Connor’s inhale whistled beside his ear. Hank pulled back to find a bizarre expression on the android’s flushed face, fervent and needy but somehow apprehensive at the same time. Connor twirled a lock of Hank’s hair around his index finger, that meek shyness reminiscent of the first time he’d asked to try sex.

“I’m not wearing my chastity plate,” he said.

Hank frowned. He frowned at his partner for several seconds, stuck in the human equivalent of an ‘error 404’. Then he lowered his gaze, traced the planes of Connor’s front all the way down to his narrow pelvis. The cloth of the skirt lay flat over his groin, no telltale bulge of arousal. No bulge of _anything_, not even a hint of dick beneath the fabric.

The fuck?

“What _are_ you wearin’, then?” asked Hank.

Connor rolled his lips together, eyes darting between Hank’s, and swallowed in a very human gesture of nerves. “I bought myself something special for my birthday,” he said. The pressure of his knee increased under Hank’s crotch, not quite enough to distract him. “But, you have to wait until we’re home to see it. I’d rather it didn’t have its debut in the back of a taxi.”

Though baffled, Hank acquiesced with his beloved’s wishes.

The sun had set by the time their cab reached Michigan Drive. The partners stumbled through the front door in an uncoordinated dance, the keys and Hank’s jacket dropped to the floor without care. Sumo raised his head from his spot under the radiator, but didn’t approach. By now, the Saint Bernard knew better than to interrupt date night.

To Hank’s displeasure, Connor twisted out of his grip once they’d stumbled as far as the couch. Smirking sly, the android told his partner to lock up and feed the dog while he ‘got ready’. Connor then strode off to the bathroom, and shut himself inside.

Still in the dark, both figuratively and literally, Hank obeyed. He bolted the front door and poured a larger mound of kibble than intended into Sumo’s bowl, distracted by the whispers of sound from the hallway. Shifting fabric, a quiet hummed tune, and the taps of high heels on tiled floor. Hank tried not to feel too disappointed. He’d hoped to undress the dazzling android himself, unwrap him like a present on Christmas morning. It was Connor’s special day, after all, and Hank wanted to pamper him any way he could.

With Sumo fed, Hank wandered through into the bedroom. He unbuttoned his shirt as he went, left it open over his vest as he worked on the belt buckle. He toed off his shoes and kicked them under the bed, and sat himself heavy on the edge of the mattress. Eager anticipation fluttered in his veins, excited to learn what Connor had bought for himself.

He didn’t have to wait long.

The bathroom door clicked open and Connor emerged in the crack, buck-naked except for the skirt. It drifted behind him like a dark, weightless robe as he crossed the hall. He touched his hands to the walls, to himself, to the frame of the bedroom doorway. His eyes stayed locked on Hank, unwavering in his approach.

Hank reached without speaking, opened his arms for Connor to glide into. Connor didn’t push him down and climb atop him, as expected, but drew up one leg to rest his shin in the lieutenant’s lap. The asymmetrical skirt parted around his raised leg, exposing his mole-flecked thigh and a sliver of hipbone.

In giddy silence, Connor prised one of Hank’s hands from the mattress. He guided it up to his mouth and kissed Hank’s knuckles, then pressed it to his chest. Dragged it down, down, over his bare sternum and flat belly, then fed Hank’s fingers slowly beneath the waistband of his skirt. He wasn’t wearing underwear.

Hank held his breath. At first, it felt familiar. Warm, firm, a silky stretch of synthskin he’d touched a thousand times before.

Then–

“Oh, _Con_….”

The smoothness parted between Connor’s legs, a sudden cleft that Hank didn’t expect. _Folds_, hot as hell, supple and plush. Connor hummed when his partner’s thumb grazed the slit, his dark eyes fluttering shut.

Hank was transfixed. “Holy shit,” he breathed. “You’ve got … you bought–?”

“A vaginal component, yes,” said Connor. He smiled wide and crooked, and pressed Hank’s palm more firmly against himself. Hank’s index finger slipped between the folds and Connor made an aborted sound, a soft keen that did shocking things to Hank’s libido. “W-would you like to help me test its functionality?”

Hank swallowed hard. The term ‘abso-fucking-lutely’ came to mind, but he felt unworthy to speak in the presence of such beauty.

He replied instead by leaning forward, and pressing a whiskery kiss to Connor’s speckled abdomen. Hank let his hands skate over flawless flesh to his partner’s hips, the sharp juts of his pelvis good spots to grip. Connor shifted his weight, and let himself tumble with Hank atop the unmade sheets. They bounced together to the squeaky mattress, giggling like schoolgirls while Hank flipped them over and brushed aside that delicate skirt.

Connor’s legs fell open at his slightest touch, and Hank honest-to-God forgot his own name. Even _down here_, Connor was beautiful. The new attachment suited him, unobtrusive and neat, cute rosy lips and no hair to speak of. Pubic hair wasn’t something CyberLife had opted to recreate. Easier to clean, Hank supposed.

Curious by nature, the lieutenant couldn’t help but touch. Gently, he pried the folds apart to expose his partner’s new entrance. It sure looked like the real thing. _Felt_ like it, too, but with a clean, vaguely vanilla scent. Fuck. Clear, thick moisture seeped from the pretty hole that led deeper inside – self-lubrication, triggered by their impatience in the cab.

“Fuck, look at you,” said Hank. Even to himself, his voice sounded ragged. “Christ, baby, you’re a stunner. You calibrated this thing yet?”

Connor shook his head, splayed beneath him like a cover-girl with bills to pay. Sultry, provocative. “I wanted you to do it,” he purred.

Well.

How could Hank possibly say no to that?


	7. Inflation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Connor helps Hank test if he still enjoys enemas as much as he did in college.

~

“You said you’ve done this before?” asked Connor.

Hank glanced at him from the empty bathtub, busy unscrewing the shower head from its fixture on the wall. The lieutenant stood in his vest and boxer shorts, where Connor sported casual clothes and a yellow LED in the mouth of the restroom.

“Yeah, back in college,” said Hank. The shower head popped off and he set it aside, then grabbed the long rubber hose that lay coiled on the floor of the tub. “My roommate was a kinky bastard. Got me curious. Wonder what he’s up to, these days….”

Connor didn’t answer, LED churning as he no doubt triple-checked his research on what he’d agreed to help Hank do. The half-chub he had going said the android was at least a little aroused by the idea, despite the pensive look on his face. Hank felt that intense stare on him, like a spotlight while he attached the hose to the open shower fixture.

Once the hose was secure and he’d tested its seal, Hank climbed out of the tub. The cold tiles bit at his bare feet as he crossed the room, and he laid a hand on Connor’s shoulder. The android visibly relaxed at the contact, his lips taking on a warm slant.

“Hey,” said Hank. “You don’t gotta stay and watch, if you don’t want to.”

Enemas weren’t something he’d thought about in a long damn time. In his twenties and thirties, yeah, but not since he’d settled down. His ex-wife had been a strict _vanilla_ kind of woman. But cleaning the bathroom earlier today had prompted a trip down memory lane, and now Hank couldn’t stop wondering if pumping himself full of water felt as good as he remembered. He’d done it enough that he could get to a pretty good size before discomfort kicked in – but that was years ago. He was out of practice.

Hank knew inflation play wasn’t for everyone, though. He’d take no offence if his partner decided to leave him to it.

Connor bit his lip, those rich brown eyes dropping to the curve of Hank’s belly through his vest. Almost tentative, he shifted an arm to trace his fingertips over the apex. Hank let him, curious to know what the android was imagining.

“I …” said Connor, tone distant. His LED blinked back to blue, and he looked up with that familiar determination. “I would like to watch. Help you, if I can.”

Hank smiled. “Well, all right,” he said, and gave his partner’s shoulder a squeeze. This would be interesting. “You can man the faucet. I’ll grab a towel, and we can start.”

They set up on the edge of the tub, with the fluffy towel cushioned under Hank’s thighs to avoid pain from perching on porcelain. He lowered his boxers at the back but didn’t remove them, and tied up his hair while Connor examined the hose’s thin nozzle. Hank slathered the nozzle in lube from the shelf, and paused to take a deep breath.

The insertion stung a bit, a faint burn that fizzled out when his body swallowed the widest part of the nozzle. Connor stroked his knee through it, soothing him with praise. It felt weird not to prep, given the amount of fooling around they got up to in the average week. Hank guided the hose as deep as he dared, a slick drag that became more pleasurable once he relaxed. Connor sank to his knees on the floor, watching every second as if entranced.

When ready, Hank told him to turn the water on.

Connor twisted the knob and water began to flow, a gentle trickle that Hank barely noticed at first. He adjusted the temperature and settled in on the edge of the tub, and gestured for Connor to open the faucet more.

Ah,_ that’s_ better.

“Adequate speed?” said Connor.

Hank hummed an affirmative, rubbing at his gut. It felt how he remembered, a deep warmth pooling low in his belly, pressing on other things as it slowly filled the empty space. Not enough to be visible yet, but definitely there. He sighed in satisfaction and Connor lifted his hand from the tap, expression unreadable.

“How does it feel?” he asked, voice low over the rumble of shower pipes.

Hank sat straighter, leaned back to let the water go where it wanted. “Good,” he said. His eyes fell shut, focusing on the sense of increasing pressure within. “Real good. Mm … fuck. I bet you’d love this, Con.”

“I’ll take your word for it,” was Connor’s amused reply.

Hank almost wished he’d thought to sit on the toilet for this, so he wouldn’t have to keep balance on the rim of the tub. His calves would complain about it later. Connor seemed to read his mind; the android rose from the floor to perch beside him in one smooth motion, and braced an arm around Hank’s back to keep him steady. His other hand, Connor used to massage Hank’s thigh. He trailed little kisses down the side of Hank’s neck, licking away beads of moisture where he’d begun to sweat.

After a few minutes, Hank started to feel full. Not quite the heaviness of overeating, but a similar _tight_ sensation that made it harder to breathe. He was rigid in his shorts, but refused to touch himself. The anticipatory, ready-for-action tingle in his crotch added to the thrill, and he didn’t want to lose that just yet.

“Hank …” Connor said suddenly. _Reverently_. The lieutenant opened his eyes to catch his partner gawping, cheekbones tinged pink and pupils blown. “Hank – I can _see_ it.”

Winded, Hank followed his gaze down. Sure enough, his soft belly had firmed up beneath the cloth of his vest. It felt _heavy_, rounded out but not yet uncomfortable. Hank cupped a palm to the curve and found it solid with some give, the stretched skin sensitive under his clothes.

He asked if Connor wanted to feel it, and his partner was on him in a heartbeat.

Connor touched his swollen stomach as if it were made of filigree, stroking and rubbing delicately. His normally hot hands burned cool through his partner’s clothing, Hank’s body temperature raised by the warm water inside. Hank groaned at the clash, and Connor slid curious fingers under the hem of his vest. With his permission, Connor lifted the fabric to expose Hank’s distended gut.

Connor’s nails teased through the hair and Hank muffled a whine in his palm, shuddering. When a clever digit caught the rim of his belly button, he couldn’t keep his noises inside. “Fucking _Christ_,” he hissed. Connor _squeezed_ and Hank bucked where he sat, fists clenched on the porcelain.

All the while, the water continued to flow.

The first twinge of discomfort only heightened the experience. Hank felt fantastic, so full and heavy and _getting_ _heavier_. Connor’s mouth on his stomach had no right to feel as good as it did. The hem of his shorts slipped down, no longer able to contain his growing belly. It all happened so slow but felt like so_ much_, each and every moment a delightful torture.

Hank clung for dear life to the front of Connor’s shirt, unsure how much space he had left in him. Not much, he guessed from the tightness. The minutes crawled by and he focused on breathing, felt his raised vest draw taut as his midsection swelled. Connor massaged his bloated abdomen with love, his touch tender and kisses gentle. He checked in at least once every thirty seconds, asking if Hank was okay or wanted to stop.

A stronger cramp sliced through Hank’s side, and he whimpered. He felt _so_ _full_. Discomfort reared its head, the ache of overstretched skin and Hank shuffled to try and make room. The water was relentless, packing his guts solid with nowhere else to go. It still felt amazing, though, a heady blend of pleasure and pain. He could take more, probably. Wanted to – to show off, show Connor exactly how big he could get.

Another spasm, and Hank decided against it. It’d been fun while it lasted. “Enough,” he bit out. “That’s … _shit_, that’s enough.”

Connor flew to the faucet, stemmed the flow with a slap like a gunshot over the rasps of Hank’s panting. The water cut off, and Hank clutched his stomach gingerly. Jesus, he felt enormous. He shifted again to try and get comfy, a high moan wrung out of him when Connor’s hands returned to join his own. Together they kneaded away the cramps in his engorged abdomen, massaging tender flesh while Hank shivered and fought for air.

“Are you all right?” Connor asked. He’d know from a scan if Hank was injured, so the question must’ve been of the emotional variety.

Hank nodded, sweaty and trembling from the strain. He throbbed in his shorts, untouched and aching for release. He saw the intent in Connor’s eye but brushed him off with a laugh, knowing full-well aware he’d blow his load the instant Con laid a finger on his dick.

“Don’t you fuckin’ dare,” he said without malice. He sagged into his partner’s side all the same, hot and bothered and craving contact. Connor supported his weight with ease, attentive enough to brush loose hairs out of Hank’s face. “I wanna hold it for a bit, get used to the feeling. It doesn’t hurt as much, now we’ve stopped.”

Connor made a compliant sound. Those slender fingers wandered down the path of Hank’s happy-trail, but stopped before reaching his taxed waistband.

“You look lovely like this, Lieutenant,” he murmured. “Should you have the urge to do this again in the future, I’d be happy to assist you.”

Hank flushed. “Fuckin’ _course_ you would,” he said.


	8. Sensory Deprivation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Connor sometimes likes to disable his senses during intimacy.

~

Connor switched off his vision, first.

Like humans, androids relied heavily on sight to interact with the world. An optical scan could reveal reams of information about their environment, from terrain data to probabilities of danger based on the facial expressions of those around them.

Connor treasured his vision in particular, because it allowed him to see _Hank_.

The lines and pores in his skin, the grey-blue of his hooded eyes, the deep grooves between and above his scrubby eyebrows. It let him measure the gap in Hank’s front teeth and the length of his wiry beard, and the angle of his once-broken nose. His lips, pale and thin, his gaunt cheeks and laugh lines and musculature, the tasteless patterns of his shirts and the swathes of hair that greyed his sturdy body.

Disabling his vision left Connor vulnerable … but also able to appreciate Hank in a whole new way.

Sensory deprivation was one of Connor’s favourite games to play in the bedroom. He became more aware of his other senses as he lay there, stark naked and ready for an evening of pleasure. He liked to disable his preconstruction software as well, to maximise the experience. It kept him in suspense – on tenterhooks while his audio, tactile, and olfactory receptors all heightened to counteract the blindness.

Touch was always the most dramatic.

His dermal layer felt as thin and fragile as tissue paper, the cotton sheets gliding like chiffon beneath his back and over his legs. They smelled of fabric softener, artificial eucalyptus and patchouli, grounding in the darkness. He became aware of his own hair, the resistance of his curls where they were crushed to the pillow. The pillow itself, coarse and firm against his nape and cheek.

Cool air settled heavy on the exposed skin of his chest, its pressure shifting while Hank strode about the bedroom. Connor could smell him, flesh and sweat and aftershave, the sharp mint of toothpaste on his breath. Hank’s bare feet padded at a boosted volume on the carpet, fibres crumpling and springing back up wherever he stepped.

Connor moved his head to follow the sounds, mouth open to regulate his temperature. He could taste his own oral lubricant, the sterile fluid he secreted to analyse samples. His sensitive ears picked up Hank’s heartbeat, his breathing, the shift of loose hair and his naked skin chafing against itself.

Farther away, Connor detected the hum of the fridge through the kitchen wall. Rain battered the windows like crates of bolts shaken onto a tin roof, Sumo snoring in the lounge. The hum of his own internal biocomponents formed a dull undertone in the bedroom. He smelled bleach, harsh in his nostrils, the musty smell of Saint Bernard and leather and fumes from car exhausts. Traffic noise, children playing in another street, the barks of dogs and yowls of cats throughout the neighbourhood.

Connor’s unseeing eyes roved when a weight on his right made the mattress dip. The sheets rustled as Hank climbed into bed, sliding himself in beside the android. Connor twisted toward his presence, his warmth, managing to find a hairy pectoral before two solid arms drew him close. Connor all but melted into Hank’s plush chest beneath the blanket. He slotted his knee between both of Hank’s, and was pleased to note a lack of underwear on the human.

Hank’s voice rumbled right beside his ear, sending pleasurable signals down his spinal column. “Con, can you see me?”

Connor exhaled, basking. “You know I can’t,” he replied. The words left him in a whisper, faint but steady.

Rough, calloused fingertips grazed over his nipple and Connor bit his lip on a gasp. Though his body lacked erogenous zones, the blindness turned every inch of him into a live wire. Unforeseen contact thrilled him. He didn’t even try to hide it. Hank took pleasure in how responsive this activity made his partner, and Connor knew it.

“Yeah, I know,” Hank’s deep baritone oozed through his thirium lines like syrup. “S’just weird that your eyes are still open. Not blindfolded, or anythin’.”

Connor faced the sound of his voice, and blinked. Once, deliberately. “I can close them, if you like.”

The gust of Hank’s chuckle danced across Connor’s nose and cheeks. “Nah, don’t worry about it,” he said. The mattress rocked, bedsprings creaking as Hank’s weight shifted. A familiar hand then settled on Connor’s hip, wide and heavy where its index finger drew little circles around a mole. “What can I do for you, honey?”

Connor hummed in thought, and flexed his toes under the sheets. The material slithered like silk atop his feet and for a moment he got lost in the feeling, the stimuli almost too much. Hank’s pulse thundered where their bodies touched, breaths bated, his veins fluttering like butterfly wings against Connor’s dermal layer.

“Your voice,” Connor begged, once he found his remaining senses again. “Hank, please … talk to me. It’s so rich and beautiful. Let me hear it, while you prepare me.”

The long, low whistle of Hank’s aroused inhale went straight to Connor’s groin. He’d chosen his vaginal attachment tonight, already wet with anticipation. Hank rolled him onto his back and Connor let himself be repositioned, smiling bright at the care and tenderness in his partner’s grip. He felt the man crawl closer, heard the creak of his joints and the small huff of effort.

Out of nowhere, the back of a short fingernail traced a sudden line down Connor’s pubic bone. Connor jerked and keened, spread his legs wide with both arms raised above his head on the pillow. Hank’s touch slowed to a halt, electric and teasingly close to his entrance.

“What d’you want me to say, baby?” Hank purred, inches from Connor’s ear. Smoky, husky, that magnificent voice pitched deep. “Should I say how sexy you are like this, all sensitive and twitchy? ’Cause _God_, you’re fuckin’ gorgeous right now. You’re pantin’ so hard for me, just to cool yourself down ’cause you’re so worked up. Gonna crash your systems, Con, if you ain’t careful.”

Connor sighed, toes curled tight. He turned his head away, sightless eyes squeezed shut. His insides clenched and a dribble of slick escaped his folds, self-lubrication working overtime. Hank’s coy fingers swept to scoop up the drip before it could dampen the sheets. Connor heard them spread the thick wetness between themselves with an embarrassing sound, before one thick digit pressed light against his hole. Waiting, asking permission without words.

Connor’s thighs shook. “_Please_.”

The tip of Hank’s slicked finger eased its way inside. Connor’s whole world narrowed down to that single point, hyperaware of the pleasant intrusion. The loops and whorls of Hank’s fingerprint scorched like a brand inside him, the blunt nail scraping his sensitive walls. Connor seized his pillow in a death-grip, its seams torn apart as he forgot how to breathe.

Hank’s voice shook him to his core. “Should I say how soft you are here,” he murmured, “how good you feel around me? You’re like a dream.” The finger sank in all the way and Connor outright moaned, overclocked in the best way. “You open up so well for me, honey. You’re so tight, but you loosen up so easy and I know you love how it feels. You love bein’ stretched out. You’re goddamn perfect and I wanna make you lose your fuckin’ _mind_.”

A second finger pressed in beside the first, and Connor canted his hips to meet them. Good God, it sure felt like they’d get there.

Hank kept talking, showered him with love and praise. His free hand roamed, petting and pinching and scratching. Connor’s skin deactivated in patches when nipped, then reformed only to be kissed or nibbled away again. Strictly speaking, androids didn’t need prep in the same way humans did. Connor just enjoyed the sensations – and being deprived of sight made everything that much more intense. He bucked and writhed on the bed, tangled in blankets and Hank’s robust limbs.

Two more fingers later, and Connor couldn’t stand it anymore.

“I’m ready, I’m ready–” he all but sobbed. His limbs felt tense and slack at the same time, core strung-out and on the verge of overheating. His clit throbbed to the beat of his thirium pump, rubbed red and swollen. “Hank, _please_, I need you –”

Hank’s wandering hand settled on Connor’s jaw, cupped his cheek while a soothing hush tickled his audio receptors. “I’ve got you, baby.”

They made love slowly. Missionary, one of Connor’s favourite positions. He adored the heaviness of Hank atop him, the scratch of hair between their bellies and on his face. He treasured holding Hank from below, mapping out the contours of his muscles beneath damp flesh. Feeling the sweat drip onto him, wetting Connor’s skin where he couldn’t produce his own. The smell of it, the heat, the pressure of Hank inside him. His every wire and circuit sang with euphoria, vivid and beautiful and perfect.

One by one, Connor shut down his senses until all that remained was touch. Until all he could do was _feel_. Texture, temperature, mass. It connected him to Hank on a primal level, intimate and raw, in a way no other person in the world could experience.

With no outside stimuli to distract him, all he knew was _Hank_. His skin, his weight, his warmth and his tongue.

Androids and humans couldn’t interface, couldn’t link minds to share data and emotions. But this … this meant they didn’t need to. Though different on so many levels, their bodies spoke a language that neither computer nor organic speech could replicate.

When Connor stirred from his post-orgasm restart, his five senses flickered back online. He was grinning before colour had even fully returned to his vision, and reached for the blindfold on the nightstand. He slapped it uncoordinated into Hank’s grey chest, his LED as brilliant blue as Hank’s warm-creased eyes.

“Your turn,” he beamed.


	9. Public + Bondage

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When Connor forgets to remove his genitals before work, Hank teases him relentlessly – and pays for it.

~

Connor miscalculated.

The deviant detective never wore either of his genital attachments to work. He equipped them in leisure time exclusively, nowhere professional. But when Sumo decided to eat grass in the yard one morning, Connor made a terrible mistake. In the process of cleaning dog vomit from the kitchen floor, he forgot to remove his phallus from the previous night’s tryst with Hank.

They were already on the road by the time he realised, stuck in traffic en-route to the station. Connor could either grin and bear it, or make Hank turn the car around at the nearest intersection and be late to work.

No, tardiness was unacceptable. It would be noon before he knew it, he thought, and he’d nip home to ‘change’ on his lunch break.

The biocomponent didn’t flush Connor’s system with hormones, like human penises and testes did. It didn’t produce an android equivalent of testosterone, making him aggressive or hungry for sex. However, since he only ever wore his cock to get physical with Hank, there was a certain … _Pavlovian response_ to its warm weight between his legs.

Every time he met his partner’s gaze across their shared desk, Connor felt a spike of arousal. The glances Hank gave him were frequent and heated, _knowing_ – and _shit_ if that didn’t make Connor want to take him then and there. He preconstructed bending his partner over the table, imagined their co-workers’ faces as he debauched Hank in the middle of the bullpen.

They’d be fired, for sure, but Connor’s erection didn’t give a single fuck. He had to cross his legs to hide it, and shut off the subroutine that kept trying to flood his face bright red.

He could’ve disabled his arousal response, too, while he was at it. He could’ve excused himself to the break room and discreetly detached the phallus, and hidden it in his desk drawer until the end of their shift. But … the thought of being found with a hard-on in his chair was thrilling.

He _liked_ the risk of being caught.

“Y’all right there, Con?” asked Hank, for the fourth time that hour. The lieutenant peered at his partner over the rim of his chipped coffee mug, one eyebrow raised higher than the other. “You’ve been actin’ kinda stiff all day.”

Connor clenched one fist in his lap to focus, his other palm pressed to the screen of his terminal in unsuccessful attempt to work. “I’m fine, Lieutenant,” he said. He pulled up files on the first open investigation he could find, and scanned their contents at speed. “I’m working on the Sperling case, the android abduction in West Woodbridge.”

Hank slurped from his mug. “Yeah, that’s a hard one,” he said. He then drained the last of his coffee, tipping back his head to grant a clear view of his throat as he swallowed. Connor couldn’t help but stare. Hank then lowered the empty beverage with a sigh, and smirked. “Need a hand?”

Connor squinted at him around his monitor. He knew exactly what the man was doing. Taunting, teasing, an innuendo in every sentence. He likely thought he could get away with it, too, because Connor was too damn professional to call him out. Drawing attention would also be a bad idea, with Detective Reed slouched feet-up a few desks away.

“No, thank you,” Connor managed, despite the ache in his crotch. There wasn’t much room in his tight jeans to begin with, the sensation of tenting new and enormously uncomfortable.

Hank gave a shrug and stood, and meandered off to the break room to pour himself a fresh coffee.

Desperate beneath a neutral mask, Connor chanced a furtive glance around the bullpen. Fowler stood yelling into his phone in his raised office, back turned, and Reed was ‘busy’ playing games on his tablet. No-one would notice. Connor palmed himself beneath his desk, trying to rub the ache away – but that only made it worse. He whipped his hand away and swallowed a whimper, distressed and conflicted.

Lunch couldn’t come soon enough.

Somehow, he endured for another ninety-eight minutes. His partner didn’t make it easy: Hank peeled off his winter coat and popped the top two buttons of his shirt, curly silver chest hair on full display. Double entendres and suggestive smiles, breathy full-body stretches, knocking their shoes together under the table. The lieutenant even tied up his hair, a stubby ponytail that made Connor salivate.

By eleven o’clock, Connor felt like a spring ready to snap. He was rock-hard in his jeans, wound tight and frustrated that Hank looked so smug about it.

Waiting for lunch wouldn’t cut it. He needed relief, _now_.

When Hank cracked his knuckles and hummed in satisfaction, Connor surged upright. His chair skidded on its wheels and Hank gawped up at him, mouth dropping open in surprise. Connor loomed over his superior officer like a TR400 model, his expression schooled blank yet determined.

“I may require your assistance after all,” he said. Thirium pulsed in his ears, so loud that he swore Hank could hear it too. “Would you accompany me, Lieutenant?”

Hank blinked. Owlish, as if he hadn’t expected Connor to accept his earlier offer. He spluttered a “sure” and rose with less grace than the android had, and followed him at a swift stroll across the bullpen. Connor didn’t bother hiding his erection, too frantic and uncomfortable to care if Reed or Fowler looked over and saw.

By some miracle, they did not.

Connor led his partner into one of the interrogation rooms. He slapped a white palm to the scanner and sealed the door behind them, to prevent anyone else from walking in. He also locked the attached observation booth, and finally hacked the security cameras on the ceiling. Connor fed the cameras looped footage, a ten-minute block of himself and Hank discussing a case in privacy last week.

When he turned around, he saw that Hank had crossed his arms and settled a hip against the table. The man hadn’t unbuckled his pants, expecting Connor to request a quick hand- or blow job and be done with it.

Connor had other things in mind.

He kissed Hank urgently, wrenched his arms open by his wrists and held them out where Hank couldn’t touch him. The lieutenant slotted a knee between Connor’s thighs instead, pushing up against his groin. Connor shuddered, but kept his composure. He broke the kiss and turned Hank around, and bent him over the table. Hank slammed his hands to the desk to catch himself, chuckling low as he spread his feet apart.

“Someone’s needy,” he said, over the zip of a fly behind him.

Connor dragged the chair aside with a clatter and crowded forward, and pressed his naked erection to the seam of Hank’s coarse trousers. The texture made his dermal layer sing. He draped himself over the man’s back, grinding for friction.

“You’re cruel, Hank Anderson,” he whined. “Do you have any idea what you do to me? _Ah_, how do humans stand this–?! I can’t _think_, watching you preen at your desk while I’m trapped in my pants and can’t do a thing about it.”

The lieutenant leaned back into him, pushing his body flush to Connor’s. He shimmied his clothed rear against Connor’s sensitive dick, the drag _electric_ and Connor buried his face in Hank’s nape. He stifled a moan into his partner’s loose grey hair, wheezing to cool himself down.

Hank sniggered. “Got no idea what you’re talkin’ about.”

“You’ve been teasing me _all morning_,” Connor grit out, on the cusp of frustration. He rocked his hips again and the table creaked under their combined weight, and a wicked idea struck the android. With deft fingers, Connor lifted the handcuffs from Hank’s back pocket. “Maybe I should return the favour?”

His sensors caught the hitch in Hank’s pulse when he realised what Connor had in mind. The cuffs glinted and Hank went still against him; a rosy flush bloomed on the nape of his neck, the sound of his gulp bouncing off the hard walls and floor.

“Do it.”

Connor cuffed his partner to the interrogation table.

He kept Hank on his feet, hunched double with his ass raised and spine bowed erotically. The detective spared a moment to trace one long finger down that pleasing arch, before unbuckling Hank’s belt. Without a word, he dragged Hank’s trousers down. They came to rest under the curve of his cheeks, framing that supple rump in tandem with his gaudy shirt. The lieutenant ducked his head, self-conscious while Connor paused again to admire the view, heat radiating off them both as the cuffs’ chain rattled.

Hank was still a little loose from the night before. Connor used his fingers and oral lubricant to ease the way, opening him up a bit quicker than he would like. They didn’t have much time – but even rushed, he made sure to hit his partner’s sensitive spots. As much as Hank’s teasing upset him, he refused to hurt the old man. Hank huffed at the pleasant burn, at the speed and precision of it.

By the third finger, the human was a flustered mess – grumbling for his partner to _fuckin’ get on with it already_. Connor withdrew his fingers and gripped Hank’s hips tight, and lined himself up.

It was fortunate that the interrogation rooms were soundproofed.

When Connor pushed in, he momentarily lost control of his voice module. Hank’s groan rang just as loud, the cuffs jangling as he clenched his fists where he stood hunched. Connor’s ocular display flickered and glitched, cluttered with temperature warnings and error codes. It felt so good, the tight heat _exactly_ what he needed. He held still as long as he could, giving Hank time to adjust, then began to move.

Connor rocked hard and deep, chasing his long-denied pleasure with sharp snaps of his hips. Hank met his thrusts with gasps and grunts, muttering swears and dripping sweat all over the table. Soon, the desk was smeared with his handprints. The cuffs held him down, kept him in place, metal clinking over the rhythmic slap of skin.

The thrill of being caught – even though he’d taken measures to avoid that – fizzled in Connor’s chest cavity like a firework. His whole body felt alight. His restraint burned quick like the fuse of a powder keg, pleasure white-hot and explosive and he wasn’t going to last and–

_–Shit!_

He finished with a choked cry, bit down on the back of Hank’s shoulder to keep his shout inside. He squeezed and shuddered and clung tight to his partner, joints locked as release scorched his senses raw. For a moment, all of his processes stalled – plummeted over the edge of bliss in freefall.

Once logic returned, and he could move again, Connor lessened his bruising grip of Hank’s hips. The lieutenant trembled against his front, every muscle tense through his clothes, and begged him not to stop. Connor reached into the lieutenant’s boxers and jerked him off with brutal efficiency, and Hank yelped as he spilled in Connor’s hand.

They stood panting for a moment, sated and breathless in a heap half-on the table. Hank’s knees shook, upper body pinned to the desk. Connor recovered first: he straightened up and pulled out gently, his partner hissing at the loss. A trail of thirium-based ejaculate oozed from Hank’s hole, milky blue-white and sure to stain his trousers.

Connor gulped at the thought. Perhaps they should have stopped to grab some tissues on the way.


	10. Formalwear + Cock Warming

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> While dressing for a dinner date, Hank can’t resist a quickie – and is kind enough to keep Connor warm during a phone call.

~

“Jesus, Con,” rumbled Hank. “What is it about watchin’ you put on fancy duds that makes me wanna rip ’em right back off?”

Connor smiled, checking himself in the bathroom mirror while he adjusted his cuffs. “I’ll take that as a compliment,” he said.

He looked, in Hank’s opinion, drop-dead gorgeous. Fuckin’ stunning. His three-piece suit was a deep, dark navy colour: blazer, waistcoat, and trousers, over a silky black shirt and tie. The jacket emphasised the width of his shoulders, single-breasted with a black boutonniere and a notched lapel. Immaculate pants, vest buttoned up neat. Everything hung smooth and slim-fit, no lint or creases to speak of. Tailored, like something out of a goddamn magazine.

Hank couldn’t help but stare, unashamedly turned-on where he leaned in the bathroom doorway. He let his gaze roam up and down his partner’s back, drinking him in. What was the old saying? Some people wore clothes, but _Connor’s_ clothes wore _him_. His hair sat as perfect as ever, save for that rebellious curl at his temple, his LED a serene blue as he tucked in his tie. He even smelled fantastic, fresh cotton and android-safe cologne.

In his boxers and drab DPD hoodie, Hank felt rather out-of-place.

From the surface of the mirror, Connor’s eyes flicked to meet Hank’s. “Lieutenant,” he said, tone somewhere between amused and exasperated. “Please stop staring and get ready. Our reservation is in thirty-four minutes, and you haven’t even showered yet.”

Hank hummed. He unfolded his arms and stepped forward from the threshold, the tile floor cool beneath his bare feet. “Thirty-four minutes?” he echoed, playful. He sauntered across the room until his belly brushed his partner’s lower back, and rested both large hands on Connor’s narrow hips. “Plenty of time. Fuck … I just wanna take a bite outta you.”

He gave those hips a squeeze, and Connor went rigid in his grip. The android then twisted his torso before Hank could kiss his nape, and cast him a light frown over his shoulder. “Flattering, but no,” he said. “There will be ‘plenty of time’ for that when we get home. Now, please, get ready.”

Hank let his disappointment show, doing his best impression of his partner’s sad doe eyes. It had little effect: Connor was immune to his own tactics, it seemed.

“Hank, _please_,” he sighed. He slid out of Hank’s hold and turned to speak with him properly, neatening his lapels. Despite the reluctant in his face, Hank spied a hint of a tent in Connor’s snug pants. “You need to wash, shave, and dress yourself. I have preconstructed that these tasks will take you twenty-one minutes. That leaves us with twelve minutes – at least eight of which will be spent driving to the restaurant.”

Hank did the math. “So, we’ve got four to play with,” he said with optimism. Before Connor could remind him to factor in traffic, he continued. “If you pick out my clothes while I shower, that’ll save some time, right?”

Connor shook his head in disbelief, but his expression held more fondness than anything. “You are incorrigible,” he said. He let out another sigh, warmer than the first. Connor then unbuttoned and shrugged off his blazer, which he draped neat over the edge of the empty bathtub. “All right, _fine_. But make it quick – and please try not to wrinkle my clothes.”

Challenge accepted.

Hank swooped like a bird of prey, pouncing to unfasten Connor’s belt beneath the angular vest. Connor backed into the sink with a huff, gripped the basin by the rim to support himself. Eager, Hank popped the button of his smart trousers. The sound bounced loud off the half-tiled walls, chased by the sharp unzipping of Connor’s fly. Connor hiked up his vest and shirt to keep them out of the way, his lower lip pinched between his teeth as Hank sank to his knees on the bathroom floor.

They didn’t do oral often – rare enough that his partner’s lack of pubic hair still sometimes struck Hank as a novelty. Flushed at the tip, Connor’s semi was easy enough to pry out of his boxers. Hank tugged the fabric aside took the head into his mouth, Connor’s cut-off moan immediate and gratifying.

Android genital attachments didn’t have much flavour, Hank had learned. Like water, their taste was more defined by their temperature. Connor’s tasted clean where it rested hot on Hank’s tongue, not at all salty or bitter, his ejaculate bland with a mild chemical tang that Hank couldn’t put a name to. Thirium, probably.

Hank closed his eyes and curled a hand around the base of Connor’s dick, covering the length he couldn’t take inside right away. Connor’s slim fingers threaded into Hank’s hair and the lieutenant made a low noise, pleasure swelling in his gut.

His gag reflex meant he couldn’t swallow his partner to the root, like the kid enjoyed doing with him. Hank was no pushover, though, and he worked his tongue and jaw to bring Connor off as fast as possible.

Four minutes? No problem.

The android was panting by the end of the first minute, and hunching knock-kneed halfway through the second. He guided Hank’s motions with one hand fisted in his hair, whimpering thin and muted while the larger man held him by the thighs. Hank’s shins ached something fierce, crushed to the cold tile, his joints ready to crack the instant he tried to stand. Connor grew so hot in his suit that the bathroom mirror began to fog up behind him, a few degrees short of coughing up steam. The thought made Hank’s insides buzz, hard enough in his boxers to cut steel.

Without warning, Connor gasped.

He seized Hank by the shoulders and wrenched him off, left the old man spluttering and messy in a state of shock. Hank recovered to find his partner motionless above him – staring straight ahead with wide eyes glazed, LED blinking yellow. Connor’s dick jutted out from his trousers, flushed red and glistening, but he didn’t even seem aware of it.

“The station is calling,” he said mechanically.

The bubble of Hank’s confusion burst, flooded him instead with annoyance. He shuffled on sore knees, his beard and chin soaked with his own saliva and Connor’s lubricant. “Fuckin’ don’t pick up,” he growled. “Let Reed or Ben deal. We’re busy – _and_ we’ve got dinner booked.”

He gave his partner’s hips a tug for emphasis, and Connor’s expression morphed from stunned to hesitant. His LED continued to flash, indecisive, then turned steady gold.

“Connor and Anderson,” he answered the call.

Hank hung his head in defeat. “Christ’s sake….”

Connor angled his head away, but otherwise stayed motionless. “Who found the body?” he said, allowing Hank to piece together the conversation. There was a pause, in which the lieutenant wilted somewhat. “West Village, Parkstone and Parkhurst Apartments … yes, I’m aware.”

Silent, Hank rested his cheek on Connor’s thigh with a growing sense of resignation. He didn’t know how android communications worked, but he was pretty sure they didn’t pick up nearby voices like microphones. They didn’t even need to respond aloud, so Connor was only doing it to keep his partner informed.

Hank glowered at his boyfriend’s dick, still erect and pink before his eyes … and was struck by a _delightful_ – if evil – idea.

“Apologies,” Connor said to the empty air, “but are any other officers available to take the case? Lieutenant Anderson and I are not on call to-_night_–_!_”

His voice cracked when Hank took him in his mouth again, composure shattered by the sudden wet heat.

Connor doubled over, braced on Hank’s shoulders for support, curling away from the sink with a choked little breath. He clapped a hand over his own mouth to stifle it, eyes squeezed shut even as precum leaked onto Hank’s tongue. Hank managed a single, appreciative bob of the head before Connor seized his hair again – a warning grip, stopping him cold.

Hank glanced up mischievously. Connor’s eyes shone bright and daring above him, alight with the thrill of inappropriate behaviour.

He didn’t pull Hank off. Nor did he encourage the lieutenant to move. Instead, he just kept him there. Hank stayed put, down on his knees with a coy slant to his brow. Maybe they should talk about exhibitionism sometime, he thought.

“I understand,” said Connor. His stare remained locked on Hank’s even as he conversed with dispatch, his voice level and steady. Amazing. “Has the coroner arrived yet?”

Hank smirked around his partner’s length. He stayed still while his partner sought details on the crime scene, just sat there and held Connor’s dick in his mouth like a fuckin’ gobstopper. Spine-tingling as the temptation was, he managed not to suck or swallow. Con would probably shove him off again if he did – and where was the fun in that? The warm weight on his tongue made him shudder, thickness twitching with Hank’s every breath.

Maybe a minute passed. Connor didn’t release his death-grip on his partner’s hair, didn’t thrust once. His self-control was inspiring. What a champ.

“Thank you, Officer,” he said at last, professional as could be. “We’ll be there in ten minutes.”

Connor’s LED blinked back to blue as he ended the call, and he pulled out of Hank’s mouth with a _pop_. His dick bobbed where it stood proud, slick with Hank’s saliva.

A little breathless, Hank grinned up at him. “Guess we really _are_ gonna be late now, huh?” he said.

Connor pursed his lips, and tucked himself back into his trousers with difficulty. “Like I said,” he sighed, “_incorrigible_.”

**Author's Note:**

> [Twitter](https://twitter.com/toastycyborg)


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